New York State Of Mind
by James Jago
Summary: Peter Pettigrew flees the ignominious defeat of the Dark Side and carves out a new life for himself in the New World. You know, some crack dealing in New York, a little armed robbery in Vegas... just what you'd expect, right?
1. Arrivals

Usual disclaimers. Not all of this will make sense if you haven't read the rest of my HP stories, so you might want to check them out first. Special mentions to Kittenmommy for letting me borrow her characters, JTBJAB for helping me with my Halloween costume -pictures available on request as soon as they're developed- and Chuck Shepherd of _News Of The Weird_ for including a story about my home town in last week's column (w/c Oct 23rd, the one about Weavers School)!

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Peter Pettigrew, aka the Heir of Voldemort, was in a very bad mood. He was also in the hold of a rickety container ship bound for New York City, in his animagus form.

_What the hell else can go wrong?_ he wondered. _Those kids -the Order of the Basillisk or whatever- have been a thorn in my side since before they were even BORN!_

He remembered it well. He'd apparated into Godric's Hollow, knife up sleeve and poised to take out Voldemort once and for all... and then assume command of the forces of darkness and rule the world himself. But of course Potter and his ragtag mob had been hiding in the sodding house courtesy of the combined efforts of Professors Snape and Flitwick (and apparently an older version of one of those children from the unaltered timeline; he was still somewhat fuzzy on those details), with a sizeable quantity of automatic weapons. Peter could just about have lived with this if one of the arriving Aurors turned out to have arrested Sirius Black earlier that day for the numerous murders for which he'd been carefully framed. A perhaps understandably livid Sirius Black had been released shortly thereafter. It had only been a temporary measure, Peter had protested; he needed to cover his tracks, and as soon as Voldemort was out of the way he would have made sure the truth was known.

It was the twelve dead Muggles -_better get used to calling them Drabs, now, given where I'm headed_- that had led to awkward questions, though. The Wizengamot regarded that as rather excessive in demonstrating his 'loyalty' to the Dark Lord, and sentenced him accordingly.

Peter's memory actually shut down at the thought of those four years in Azkeban. It said much about the place that he could feel in any way pleased to see Bellatrix Lestrange; she'd finally succeeded in infiltrating the place with the aid of about five times the stated dose of Prozac and a cloak she'd appropriated from somewhere. They'd immediately gone to ground, building up their numbers and learning the Muggle way of doing things ready for the final showdown.

The bomb in Kings Cross had been a spectacular success, the attacks on the homes of the Order's various members less so. _If we'd known they all still had the guns they'd used in battle against Riddle, I'd have sent more manpower and more firepower,_ Peter thought to himself. _The seige of the Burrow nearly worked, but I just _had_ to go and entrust cutting the Floo connection to Vincent fucking Crabbe, thick tosser above all thick tossers!_ It was of little consolation that Crabbe had been killed fighting off the Auror reinforcements that descended to assist the Order in protecting Minister Weasley's wife and assorted children and grandchildren (how they all fit inside the Burrow was a mystery to Peter; the legendary Weasley Clock had been replaced with something resembling the digital threat board in the Pentagon War Room a few years after the last of the brood finally got around to marrying), given that shortly thereafter they had been pursued to the Heir's Lair -it was quite a good alliteration with the right accent- and been well and truly trounced. _Always had a bad feeling about Malfoy Manner. If Lucius hadn't given us the use of the place rent-free I'd have gone for somewhere a sight less obvious!_ Lucius might at the very least have mentioned the sodding secret passageway that his wayward sodding offspring led the sodding Order of the sodding Basillisk though into Lucius and Bellatrix's _special_ sodding dungeon. The one with the whips and dildos and other unpleasant items; nobody had ever cared to discover who did what to who in there, but it had got quite loud at times.

_And now here I am, on some rickety banana boat heading for what I sincerely hope will be a more serene life. Could be worse, I suppose. I've got three hundred Galleons and five thousand US dollars in small bills, my wand, a Beretta with two spare clips and a twelve-pack of condoms... the makings of a nice relaxing weekend break in Vegas, in fact!_

_But first, I'd better submit my resume to certain individuals..._

It isn't made widely known, but certain factions of organised crime are always happy to take on ambitious young wizards or witches who don't mind getting their hands dirty. They are both residents of their own parallel worlds, and occasionally have interests in common with one faction or another; Capone played a key part in keeping Grindelwald's influence east of Iceland, and Ronnie Kray had a son in Slytherin. Peter had a list of names and addresses, most of them mail drops.

First order of business once they docked was getting off the ship, expedited by a Disillusionment charm. _I wonder if any wizards have ever tried this before?_ Once that was out of the way, he booked himself into a Holiday Inn and began making some essential purchases. A cellphone was top of the list, followed by a secondhand laptop and printer. A trip to New York's answer to Knockturn Alley got him a perfectly forged British passport, driving license and work permit, all in the name of Peter Patterson. He also acquired OWL and NEWT certificates in the same name; he didn't bother to change the actual _grades,_ which were perfectly good. A carefully edited curriculum vitae omitted any mention of the Heir of Voldemort and everything to do with it, merely stating that he had been 'engaged upon business ventures of my own.' Even the wizarding Mob might be a little leery of hiring a known terrorist these days; it'd be like putting Bin Laden on the payroll.

He had to resort to the Internet to find out what had happened back home. Tapping the laptop with his wand, he watched with interest as resolved itself into quibbleronline.wiz. _I wonder if the webmaster knows about this?_ He was vaguely pleased to find out that chez Malfoy had been burned to the ground in the fighting, and decidedly reassured to learn that the Aurors had decided he had fled the country.

_Well, they'll have enough to do over there finding whoever got away from that fiasco. No, you needn't worry about me. I'm going to build a new life here in the New World._

_I, Peter Pettigrew, am gonna be a made man!_

_And in order to further that ambition, I will never attempt to sound like Robert De Niro again. Ever._


	2. New York City

Author's Note: The US equivalent to the Knight Bus is borrowed from one of whydoyouneedtoknow's one-shots set in the sublime _Living With Danger_ universe.

Tony Victorelli looked from printed CV to prospective employee and back. "Despite your effort to disguise your identity, Mr Pettigrew, your reputation precedes you. Your face is in half the newspapers of wizarding Europe." Peter fought to keep his expression neutral. "I know, I know. My countrymen can sometimes come across as rather insular. But I run a very large and diverse range of business concerns in one of the biggest port cities in the United States, Mr Pettigrew; I need to keep abreast of events in the wider world. Especially Europe. You do know that Division Six are fully aware that you made it out of Britain?"

"I see," Peter replied, thinking _Bollocks. _'Division Six' was the popular nickname for the FBI's Unconventional Crimes Department.

"This, Mr Pettigrew, causes me -and probably anybody else to whom you have submitted speculative applications- a certain amount of reluctance in hiring you. You are a known face. The law-enforcement agencies of this great nation do not like cop-killers, regardless of the nationality of victim or perpetrator. And let's not even get started about the whole bomb thing." He fixed Peter with a steely glare. "Terrorists are not popular in New York right now, Mr Pettigrew. We New Yorkers have a very large hole in our skyline to remind us of the consequences of terrorism." Victorelli stood up, his accent becoming more pronounced. "You targeted innocent women and children in that bomb, Wormtail. I have three kids in Salem. They get the special from Platform Zero in Grand Central. I ain't gonna make out that I'm one of the good guys, but there are some lines a man does not cross and still deserve to be called a man. Now disappear."

Dejected and furious, Peter stalked out of the small office building and wondered if he should risk hailing a cab. Better to use the subway, he decided; that five grand would have to last. _Well, the hell with it. If I have to go to the Muggle Mob, so be it. I'm pretty handy with a gun, I don't mind getting my hands a little dirty. Your loss, Mr Victorelli!_

Actually, if he had wizarding law enforcement on his tail over here it mightn't be a bad idea to drop out of sight into the Muggle world for a bit. Not that it would help all that much if the FBI had his pertinent details on file.

The relationship between wizard and Muggle (or Drab as they had it Stateside) government was rather closer in the United States than in Europe. There was no equivalent of the Ministry of Magic, with most things being handled at state and sometimes county level. The various magical education facilities were regarded as independent fee-paying schools in US law, and were therefore subject to more or less the same legislation as their non-magical equivalents. However, since they were highly specialist, highly specialist inspectors were required... Such quiet gentlemen's agreements existed at every level of government, and even where Constitutional principles were at stake or the Republicans were in office they got along somehow.

There was also no US equivalent of Azkeban; in fact, the employment of Dementors had been designated cruel and unusual punishment and abolished over a hundred years ago. Wizarding criminals were dealt with by the mainstream judicial system, and many police forces had a so-called 'Unconventional Crimes Unit' to deal with detection and capture, often referred to jokingly as either 'Division Six' or 'Special Unit 2'. (As an aside, the creator of the latter is reputed to have been a Squib.) Peter found the thought slightly comforting, but a stay in San Quentin was pretty high up on his personal Top 100 Things To Make Sure Don't Happen.

He spent most of the subway trip brooding on the question. He'd have to gloss over the whole Voldemort thing, and splash out on a few more forged certificates, but never mind. One way or another, he was going to make it big in the Big Apple!

Six months later, he felt he might actually be getting close to achieving his aim. His post wasn't glamorous by any stretch of the imagination; it consisted of all the frightfully dull adding-up that the Devil's Children of Spanish Harlem were too idle/proud/dim (usually all three) to do for themselves, as well as the occasional presentation to prospective clients whose bigotries were too severe to tolerate a sales pitch from a Latino. For all that, it was steady work at a good enough salary to afford a modest appartment in a somewhat better neighbourhood and a tolerably flashy motorcycle to commute with. Anybody who asked would be told he was an accountant for a small pharmaceutical supplies importer, which wasn't really a lie.

He carefully chained the bike to the railings outside the row of somewhat dilapidated shops, and headed for the small record shop at the far end. Nodding a brief greeting to the old man on the till, he headed for the first floor and his office.

"Morning, Krystal. Any mesages?" he asked the girl who manned the phones and generally acted as secretary.

"Just one sir, from Senor Esteban; today's delivery's gonna be two hours late. Something about an engine problem, I think, but the cellphone signal out there is terrible."

"Bugger. Pass me the phone; I'll let Ramon know." She gratefully passed it over; Ramon's temper was legendary, and his repertoire of Spanish invective truly impressive. He dialled the number. "Ramon? Hi, it's Pete. I've got bad news; Esteban rang just before I got in, the ship's got engine trouble or something. We're now looking at an ETA of... Kris, what time exactly did he call? Thanks. Eleven o'clock. Oh, take it easy for Christ's sake! If you want to be pissed with somebody, why not be pissed with the chief engineer of that rustbucket carrying our merchandise? Besides, it could be a hell of a lot worse. Sales have been down this week anyway, Lent or something I suppose. Yeah, I'll keep you posted. Adios." He hung up. "No, I'm going to go one better than that. I'll have that oily little tit Esteban call him direct. Krystal, be a darling and nip over to Starbucks, please?" He wrote down his order and gave her a ten-dollar bill. "Thanks a lot. Have a latte on me if you like."

"Thanks, Mr Patterson. Back in ten, 'kay?"

Peter grinned, and bent over the week's payroll figures. _I'm definitely in with a chance there..._ A few seconds later, the phone rang. "Sanchez and Patterson Import-Export, how can I help?"

"Hello again, Wormtail."

_Oh, balls._ "Moony! Nice to hear from you again! Where on Earth did you find this number?"

"A little research, a few pointers from a certain Mr Victorelli. How have the mighty fallen? One of the most wanted terrorists in the United Kingdom reduced to crunching numbers for a crack dealer."

"There are worse ways to earn my keep. What do you want, anyway? I refuse to believe you're just calling to gloat."

Remus laughed. "Oh, not at all. I'm calling from just outside your office, which is currently surrounded by a mixture of NYPD SWAT and DEA officers. You're going home, Peter."

Pettigrew sighed deeply. "God damn it, what do you people want from me? I lost, didn't I?" But Lupin had hung up. "Arse. Arse bugger shit fuck balls!" He took a deep breath and counted to ten in his head, then strode hastily to the cupboard at one end of the room and extracted an MP5K submachine-gun and a Russian-made autoloading 12-gauge shotgun. Placing them on a nearby desk, he further equipped himself with a Kevlar vest and a set of US Army surplus combat webbing, already weighed down with spare magazines. Grabbing both weapons, he tried apparating, but Lupin and his Stateside opposite numbers already had wards up. _Okay, so be it._ Snapping off both safety catches, Peter strode down the stairs with weapons upraised. _No matter what, I'll be damned if I'll go out without a fight!_

He reflected briefly on the strangeness of it all. Death Eaters were supposed to hate everything about Muggles, yet here he was in a Muggle neighbourhood, carrying Muggle weapons... But the Big V had learned the hard way that the Killing Curse was rather on the cumbersome side compared to, say, a Kalashnikov on full automatic!

It appeared that luck was not on the side of the righteous this day. Some helpful soul with an anti-authoritarian streak had alerted Ramon that his offices were under seige, and a battered black van full of heavily armed and utterly wired gang members skidded to a halt mere yards from the assembly of black-and-whites and SWAT vans the very moment Peter booted open the front door with a weapon in either hand and a look of displaced rage upon his countenance. (Author's Note: Anybody feel up to doing this as fan-art?)

Captain of Aurors Remus Lupin, on asignment to the Unconventional Crimes Division of the New York City Police Department, stared at the man he'd come to extradite in utter amazement. _Oh, Padfoot, you're going to be sorry you missed this!_ he thought fleetingly, drawing his sidearm. The young Latino ruffians were engaging the police with more enthusiasm than tactical skill, but since one of them had an M60 they were liable to cause some serious damage. The majority of the police officers moved to engage the new arrivals, but Remus seized the initiative and took aim at Peter. Before he could fire, Pettigrew let go with the shotgun. It was loaded with very light number nine shot, nearly a hundred pellets, but two officers went down. Remus went to the nearest, who was screaming in pain from the pellets that had hit his eyes. "I need a paramedic over here!" Remus yelled, picking up the wounded man's weapon. It was an M16 assault rifle, which he knew was capable of penetrating bdy armour. He raised it and fired a three-round burst towards Peter, but missed. As he watched, a particularly courageous plainclothes DEA officer broke cover and advanced, firing his pistol as he did so. Peter knocked the man backwards with a three-round burst from the MP5, then levelled the shotgun and fired.

From less than six feet, the man's head was obliterated. Wit an inarticulate yell of rage, Remus brought the rifle to bear and sprayed the entire clip at Pettigrew, but it was too late. A small brown rat disappeared into a storm drain.

After the memorial service for the DEA officer and two NYPD men killed by the gang members, Remus was debriefed by a senior officer in the UCD. "There'll be the usual post-mortem formalities, but I've spoken informally to several of my superiors. They're of the opinion that nobody was to blame. There was no way to put up anti-transformation wards in time, and we'd no idea he'd have that much backup _or_ that much firepower of his own."

"I know, I know," Remus admitted. "I just wish..."

Deputy Commisioner Bill Sachs placed a reassuring arm on the younger man's shoulder. "We've all been there, Lupin. The guys in white hats can't always win."

"That doesn't make it easier to bury colleagues, especially ones you count as friends. This psychopath has caused more than enough carnage!"

"Yeah. I need to warn you that extradition proccedures might be somewhat tricky now; we don't hand over cop-killers too readily."

"Fine by me," Remus replied with a very lupine snarl. "I'll be forwarding a recommendation to my superiors that we leave him to face trial in the United States. And personally, I hope he gets the death penalty."

Meanwhile, Peter Pettigrew was boarding a WhamTrak train for Las Vegas, blissfully unaware that he was getting most of an episode of _America's Most Wanted_ to himself.


	3. Las Vegas

Three weeks later, Peter found himself rather down on his luck. His funds were low, he was top of the FBI's Ten Most Wanted List (except for Osama Bin Laden, who doesn't really count) and none of the big firms down here would touch him with a bargepole. He was now reduced to plain old-fashioned armed robbery to make a living.

He had a more or less standard method of operating; take a taxi to his destination, carrying his serious firepower and body armour in a holdall, then drag a balaclava over his face and fire one or two pistol shots through the ceiling as he walked in and address the owner in a polite but firm tone of voice. Once he had the cash he would exit smartly and hail another cab from a safe distance. By the time the police got there he was long gone. He'd become a minor celebrity in Vegas; the local media had started calling him The English Villain. God help him if anybody ever realised who he was!

He'd decided upon a small independent convenience store this time, one of those family-run places started by hardworking immigrants in a rather seedy area. That was a mistake, he reflected later; these places got hit all the time.

He pulled the balaclava down with one hand as he drew the Beretta with the other, a gesture he'd perfected by long practice. He fired twice into the ceiling, causing everybody to scream and dive for the floor. "Good morning, ladies and gentlemen, I'm about to conduct some impromptu redistribution of wealth so if you could all please remain calm then _Jesus Christ!"_ The sales assistant ran around the counter, .45 automatic in one hand and a fifteen-inch machete in the other. Peter double-tapped him in the head and he went down. There was an inarticulate yell of rage, and the proprietor -evidently the boy's father- came tearing out of a back room with a shotgun. Peter dived behind a row of shelves and unzipped the holdall. He fastened on his body armour and took up his preferred weapons. "Have some of this!" he yelled, putting five rounds into the old man, then decided to make a run for it.

Two police cruisers had skidded to a halt outside the shop by this point; they'd been in the area investigating a burglary and heard the gunfire. _This is not my fucking day!_ he thought to himself, opening fire. He raked their windshields, but the glass was rated to withstand anything less powerful than a crew-served heavy machine gun and he succeeded only in cracking them. One officer coming out of his vehicle was less fortunate, and went down with a bullet through his head. Swearing under his breath, Peter ducked into an alleyway and ran.

"Officer down!" one patrolman screamed into his radio. "Requesting an APB on suspect fleeing the 7-11 at 38th and Tavers. He's wearing a mask, and carrying an Uzi or something! We're gonna need SWAT backup!"

"Roger that," the dispatcher replied calmly. "All units, all units, shots fired on 38th and Tavers. One officer down. Suspect is masked, carrying automatic weapon. Don't take this guy on without calling for backup, people, he's already shot up two black-and-whites." Outside, the two Bell 212 helicopters used for rapid SWAT deployment were spinning up, and every available unit was roaring out of the vehicle pool. Union-mandated coffee breaks or not, when a fellow officer is killed in the line of duty, his or her colleagues put on a maximum effort.

Peter briefly considered Apparating, but abandoned the idea. Tipping off the FBI that he was in Vegas would be suicide. He decided to get hold of a vehicle and make a break for it, then drive into a ravine and Apparate out of the vehicle. _Okay, so maybe it's a little Hollywood, but it might just work..._

A suitably fast-looking Mitsubishi GTO pulled up at a red light. Peter ran over, and smashed the window with a wild swing from the Saiga 12-gauge. It resembled an AK47 chambered for buckshot, which is basically what it was, and the terrified young man looking down the barrel imagined he could see all the way up it to the shell.

"Out of the car! Move!" Peter yelled. The young man fumbled with the door handle. In desperation, Peter opened it from the outside and dragged the man out by the collar, knocked him cold with a backhand swipe from the shotgun and climbed into the car. Putting his SMG and shotgun on the seat beside him, he released the handbrake and stood hard on the accelerator.

The car's previous owner blurted out his story to a foot patrol officer mere minutes later. "Dispatch, this is Foot Patrol Eight. Silver-grey Mitsubishi GTO coupe reported stolen in vicinity of 36th street. Suspect's description matches that of last APB."

"Copy that. All units, all units, suspect is believed mobile in silver Mitsubishi sports coupe."

The Jet Ranger spotter helicopter located the vehicle soon after, as it screamed along a relatively clear highway into the desert. "This is the Nevada State Police," the copilot called into the loudspeaker. "Pull over to the shoulder and exit the vehicle with your hands raised!"

Peter grabbed the MP5 and rattled off a long burst in the helicopter's general direction, failing to actually hit anything but convincing the helicopter to draw back somewhat. "Shots fired from the car, automatic weapon used," he reported. "No damage, but it's him alright."

A Highway Patrol cruiser left the shoulder in a spray of gravel as the stolen vehicle roared past. Peter cursed under his breath as he spotted the flashing lights, and leaned out of the window with the shotgun. A single round of Number 9 buckshot perforated the hood and destroyed one tire. The vehicle skidded and came off the road, then rolled down a bank.

"Score one for me," Peter chuckled, changing up a gear. "I wonder if I can get them to help me recreate that chase scene from _The Blues Brothers?_" He switched on the stereo, inserted an Audioslave CD he'd found in the glove compartment and began to thoroughly enjoy himself.

Ten miles later, he'd acquired another tail, a motorcycle patrol officer. Keen to conserve his ammunition, Peter jammed on the brakes and sent the unfortunate officer flying as the bike hit the coupe's rear end to land with some force in the other lane. An oncoming truck slammed on the brakes, jack-knifed and rolled over. Simultaneously, a car behind him slammed on the brakes to avoid the wrecked bike and was shunted from the rear by another.

A decidedly alarmed police Jet Ranger pilot reported the carnage, and bitterly suggested they put a call in to Nellis Air Force Base and borrow a couple of F-16s.

"We got the next best thing, Air One," the dispatcher replied. "Redbird Flight, state your position, over."

Two of the Nevada Air National Guard's shiny new UH-60 Blackhawk assault transports hove into view, accompanied by three Bell 212s full of SWAT officers. "Oh, joy," Peter said wearily, eyeing the door-mounted miniguns in each Blackhawk.

"This is the Nevada Air National Guard!" somebody bellowed through a loudhailer. "Pull over to the shoulder and exit the vehicle with your hands raised or we will open fire!"

"Go right ahead," he muttered, setting the cruise control and grabbing hold of his guns.

The National Guard personnel unanimously agreed that there had been a bright flash from the interior of the vehicle, possibly accompanied by a crack that might easily have been a shot. No censure was applied for their response, which was to rake the speeding vehicle with gunfire and blow it apart. The owner of the vehicle was considerably less impressed, but accepted the insurance money and took some comfort in the fact that the culprit was messily dead.

It was prudently kept out of the newspapers that no human remains were found in the wreckage, which was handed over to the FBI for forensic analysis. They determined that the cruise control had been set, but otherwise drew a total blank. The Unconventional Crimes Division sent in their own team, and determined quickly that the occupant had apparated away from the vehicle shortly before the explosion.

Immediately, every UCD recieved an urgent warning that Pettigrew had last been seen in Las Vegas County, and he was now being sought for the murder of two police officers and five civilians (three of them in the pile-ups he left behind him on both sides of the freeway) and at least a dozen armed robberies in addition to his lengthy list of terrorist offences.

"Oh, Peter," Remus said as he read about this in the _Daily Prophet_, allowing horror to mingle with a little reluctant admiration. "How we underestimated you."


End file.
